When I gaze at her/
and dream,/
do I become/
as every other one/
who has ever looked/
in rapt admiration,/
mouth agape,/
trying to quell/
unexpected fire?/
Or am I one/
who can look to the fire,/
feel the heat,/
imagine the flame,/
and, still,/
not get burned?
It saddens me/
greatly/
that folks can’t see/
this mystery: /
Traveling is free.
Come with me.
It is only a/
nightmare when I awaken/
and find she’s* not there.
OR
*to find her not there.
I just had a dream/
of meeting linguist Noam Chomsky/
at his parents’ bistro/Cafe’
on the shores of the Black Sea.
The problem is:/
he was born and raised in Philly.
But by his glasses I could tell:/
It was he./
Noam Chomsky,/
talking/
and walking/
with me,
as we/
took a goofy/
spectacled selfie.
This early morning,
I dreamed.
I swam with my son
and his friends in the Black Sea.
I then had a wonderful melted chocolate dessert
with a cute old couple
who had a Noam Chomsky poster,
teal, it was,
with a pink orange 4-inch paintbrush slash
in the lower left-hand corner,
hanging
in their old bistro Café.
The poster
and they
told me about Chomsky’s performance,
so I went up to the City Square.
Chomsky was performing,
reading,
and having his class read.
I became
— as is typical for me —
part of a class he taught,
where a woman couldn’t read
her poem,
written on wood in dark woodburnt letters.
So someone else read it,
and they asked me
to hit my head on the table
in front
of me “Clunk”,
saying “I could have had
a bigger apartment!”
“Clunk”.
It was a great
public
experience
I got to share.
I then walked back
toward the bistro Cafe’,
because my daughter had texted me.
As I was going back,
the ferry arrived
and emptied.
I tried crossing
in front of the traffic,
between the crosswalk bars,
and a policeman in blue and black uniform
yelled at me
and gave me a five-penny
fine.
He followed me
to the café,
where I gave him a nickel,
and the old couple helped
pay the fine
in local currency,
so I left my Jefferson head nickel
on their wooden counter.
I looked behind the counter,
and there,
in person,
was Noam Chomsky.
He was the old couple’s son!
He had to leave the bistro/Cafe’,
so I walked with him
for awhile,
and told him how wonderful
and kind
his parents were.
Then I asked
if we could take a selfie
together.
He had something wrong
with his eyes,
so he put on very thick,
dark-framed glasses.
I put on my black-framed glasses,
and the camera was upside down
and we couldn’t take the picture,
but finally we took it
and it was obvious that I was being
a pest
but I still got
the picture.
And then I went back
and found my children at the bistro/Café.
I don’t think we saw any of the city
at all
but we swam together
at night
and I played submarine
and tipped over
a large sailboat toy
like it been torpedoed …
and I didn’t even get
Noam Chomsky’s
autograph.
I’ve been there.
I know,
not exactly,
but partially,
how it feels
to doubt.
I get
that you don’t get
how fabulous you are,
how positive we are.
The dreams we hold
dear,
as children,
as princesses and princes,
or as knights
or court jesters,
get beaten.
We lose.
Instead of dreams,
nightmares.
Or worse.
Because in nightmares
we fight.
We rage,
rage,
against the onslaught,
against the lava
that covers us,
against our pants
falling down,
preventing us from running
until we awaken,
wrapped
and trapped
in the sheets
designed to hold us
and keep us
safe
and warm.
No nightmares
take us to death’s door,
stop our dreaming.
It is the belief
that we can’t.
We fear to close
our eyes,
not because we’ll dream
nightmares,
but because we fear
dreaming
nothing.
That fear
follows us
into life.
We believe
the doubts.
We believe
the nothing.
We see
nichts.
But we are always
wrong.
Even when we are
nothing,
we are something.
The likelihood
of being great
is just as great
as the lie
we believe
of nothing.
You tell me
“I think I am
nothing.”
I tell you
“I think you are
something.”
Which is right?
Even in a straight-up
gamble,
there is fifty percent
likelihood
you are
something.
This is no gamble.
It is real.
You exist.
And because you exist,
you are
something.
How great
your something
is
can be discovered.
If not,
it still exists.
It is there
because
you are here.
You just
have to accept
the fact
that,
no matter how you see
yourself,
(or don’t),
other people are going to see
you.
Most will see you well.
And they
(at this point in your life)
are more likely to be closer
to the truth
than you,
sadly,
are.
Some day you will get back
to seeing yourself
as the awesome
and creative
and talented
and intelligent
and shining
person
you really are.
Right now,
you just
have to take
my word
for it.
Word.
Truth.
I keep dreaming of/
me crashing and dying while/
I’m texting. I’ll stop.
Why would they do that?/
To release you to passions/
you’ve only dreamt of.
She didn’t know I’d/
dreamed of Tinkerbell since I/
was a little boy.
You ask if I sleep./
Yes, I do, so I can dream/
of women like you!